


Yes sir, that's my baby

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>River is their only hope of capturing the unusually slippery criminal – or so she’d told him with a smug smile just before she dragged him off to play a game of undercover espionage. Well, the Doctor calls it undercover espionage. River insists on calling it foreplay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yes sir, that's my baby

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from the song by Gene Austin.

He doesn’t know why he lets her talk him into these things. Well, he sort of does. It’s her hair and her smile and those small, capable hands sliding up his chest as she presses sultry curves against him, eyes pleading. Oh, those eyes. He gets lost in those eyes if he isn’t careful, like a man under hypnosis. They’re just the right blend of blue and green to remind him of the waters of Anura and if he stares into them long enough, he can imagine he’s swimming – or perhaps drowning would be more apt. Only River could make drowning enjoyable.

 

The Doctor quickly shakes himself, pulling uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt. But that’s not the point. The point is – wait. What was the point again? He shoves aside mental images of River’s eyes and the things she can get him to do with them – if only Kovarian had known she never needed a weapon to kill him. One bat of River’s eyelashes and he’d have fallen to his knees in submission. No, stop. _Think_.

 

Soft, familiar laughter reaches his ears and the Doctor flinches. Oh yes. The _point_ is that he’d planned a nice evening on Arcateen V with his wife and instead, he’d shown up at Stormcage only to have her whisk him away instead – to America of all places. Apparently, a homicidal 51 st century equivalent of a loan shark has managed to evade capture by the clerics for long enough to make them the subject of much ridicule. With an illegally acquired vortex manipulator and a knack for hiding in plain sight despite his rather hefty size, River is their only hope of capturing the unusually slippery criminal – or so she’d told him with a smug smile just before she dragged him off to play a game of undercover espionage. Well, the Doctor calls it undercover espionage. River insists on calling it foreplay.

 

Using the TARDIS, she’d tracked Bix Shaw (known by those in his inner circle as Pee Wee for reasons the Doctor will never hope to understand) all the way here to this speakeasy in Chicago, 1925. River doesn’t seem to have much of a plan other than getting the man so drunk he can’t stand up, let alone resist arrest. It’s the most non-violent plan she’s ever concocted, and he tends to tag along on River’s missions frequently. He might have been pleased if Shaw wasn’t becoming increasingly handsy the more River plied him with alcohol – grubby, meaty hands that had no business being anywhere near –

 

He tugs agitatedly at his collar once more.

 

At this point, he’d prefer a little gunfire.

 

Not that he can blame Shaw. River looks positively _tempting_ tonight. But then, around her, the Doctor is always tempted. She’s dressed impeccably for the time period in a flapper dress of lace and fringe, the short hemline showing off spectacular legs and the plunging neckline distracting him and every other man around the table from the card game taking place. _Yowzah_.

 

She leans in toward Shaw, speaking softly and batting those damnable eyes under the pretense of flirting but all the while sneaking a peek at his hand. The Doctor has always been rubbish at cards but with River sending him telepathic instructions, he manages to act the part of the competent gangster slash card shark as well as look it.

 

_He’s bluffing._

 

Smirking, the Doctor adjusts his fedora over his eyes – the moment River had mentioned he’d get to wear a hat, he’d caved to this ridiculous charade – and pushes the rest of his chips toward the middle of the table, a silent challenge. Shaw raises his brows and the men around the table grumble and throw down their cards. Shaw lays down his cards to show two threes, a one, a Queen and a Jack, and River’s eyes sparkle in triumph. Only then does the Doctor reveal his own hand, murmuring with relish, “A royal flush.”

 

Shaw narrows his eyes. “Impossible.”

 

“I think you mean improbable.” The Doctor beams and reaches for his winnings. He’s not usually a gambling man but taking the money of the murderous prick who has been ogling and at times even groping his wife all evening has its advantages. A firm hand wraps around his wrist and the Doctor looks up into Shaw’s furious face. “Oi, no need to get into a lather just because you lost, old boy.” He relishes the lingo of the era on his tongue but in the back of his mind, he senses River give a mental roll of her eyes.

 

Shaw snarls. “I didn’t lose – I never lose. You cheated.”

 

“I beg your pardon!” The Doctor puffs out his chest, appalled. Technically, he had been cheating a bit but he’s been doing it very sneakily and with telepathy. Being caught when he’s very bad at cheating is one thing, but to be accused with no proof is just rude. “You’re just a very sore loser.”

 

He feels River’s amusement but she says nothing, resplendent in her fitted, elbow length gloves as she takes another drag from her cigarette. She never smokes but she’d insisted because she liked the elegant cigarette holders in this era. To her credit, she looks like a natural. So much so that to an outsider, she’s only the empty-headed moll to his gangster, watching the proceedings with wide eyes, but the Doctor can see the tension in her frame, see her coiled to spring at the slightest hint of violence toward him. He sends her a warm rush of affection and gratitude that makes her lips twitch around her cigarette.

 

Meaty fist slamming down on the table and rattling the game chips and tumblers of alcohol, Shaw glares down at him, expression thunderous. “You’re a cheater. I knew you were no good the minute you strolled in with your little b -”

 

The Doctor stands abruptly, eyes furious and mouth a hard line. “I would watch the next words out of my mouth very carefully if I were you,” he warns quietly.

 

Pressing a calming hand to the small of his back, River admonishes them with a bat of her eyelashes, “Boys, there’s no need for this. It’s just a silly game.”

 

Silently and only to him, she hisses _stop it, you’re going to scare him off, you overprotective idiot._

 

The Doctor pouts and slowly sinks back into his seat.

 

Smiling sweetly, River pushes a drink at Shaw. “Have another.”

 

Softening instantly as River leans toward him just enough to allow him a generous view down her dress, Shaw casts one last wary glance at the Doctor before taking his seat too. He sips at his whiskey slowly, eyes still on her chest, and the Doctor grits his teeth until his jaw aches. _For god’s sake, River, just put something in his drink and get it over with._

 

Still smiling at Shaw, she places a soothing hand on the Doctor’s knee under the table. _Where’s the fun in that?_

 

He scowls.

 

Her hand inches up his leg, warm fingers squeezing his thigh and the Doctor squeaks. _I’ll make it up to you_.

 

_Oh really, Doctor Song? How?_

 

Looking at Shaw, River fiddles coquettishly with the feather held in her hair by a wide headband while looking at Shaw but the Doctor knows it’s more for him and that knowledge makes it a little easier to sit in his seat with a polite smile and refrain from sonicing Shaw’s chair legs into toppling him over. _Spoilers_.

 

He adjusts his fedora petulantly.

 

As Shaw reaches the bottom of his fourth glass of the night, River turns to the Doctor and speaks aloud, “Darling, I want to dance.”

 

The band onstage is playing a rousing rendition of St. James Infirmary and the Doctor brightens considerably. He may be rubbish at cards but dancing he can do with his eyes shut – which he did once, won a prized ham and everything. In any case, he’s been dying to swing River around the dance floor and see that dress flare out around her knees. He moves to stand up and take her hand but River kicks his shin beneath the table. Hard.

 

“Ow!”

 

She coos at him, a gentle hand against his cheek. “Oh, is your bad leg acting up again? My poor sweetie.”

 

He nods, eyeing her resentfully. “Yes, it seems to have snuck up on me.” Her eyes twinkle with mirth and he continues spitefully, “I’m afraid I can’t dance with you tonight, baby.” He doesn’t need telepathy to read her mind – he knows just what she thinks about that particular pet name by the narrowing of her eyes. He grins.

 

River glowers at him.

 

Shaw, however, falls right into her trap. “I’ll dance with you, sugar.”

 

_Sugar_ , the Doctor mouths sourly.

 

River barely manages to stifle the disgusted curl of her lip, coyly toying with the beads draped around her neck. “Oh, would you? I’ve just been _dying_ to dance all night.” He knows it’s all part of the plan but it always unsettles him when River pretends to be simple and shallow and just altogether _less_ than she is. Thankfully it doesn’t happen often. He likes his River brazen and sassy and very, very bad. “You’re a darling. Sweetie, isn’t he a darling?”

 

“He’s the bee’s knees,” he agrees dryly.

 

_Jealous, my love?_

 

_Not a chance._

_Rule One._

 

He grumbles under his breath.

 

Shaw stands and moves only a few feet away, waiting for her. “Look after this for me, will you, sweetie?” River leans in under the pretense of checking on his ‘bad leg’, slipping something into his jacket pocket. “Sit here and be a good boy until I get back. Don’t take any wooden dimes.”

 

“Oh, so you can talk like a gangster but I can’t? How is that fair?”

 

“Never said it was sweetie.” She winks and straightens, hurrying off to join Shaw.

 

The Doctor follows her with his eyes, tracking her every move until the moment Shaw pulls her close, his hands a touch too possessive on her hips. To distract himself from grinding his teeth, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the mystery item she’d entrusted him with. Shaw’s vortex manipulator. River must have stolen it right off his wrist. The Doctor grins. Well, no escaping now, Pee Wee.

 

The band plays St. Louis Blues and Minnie The Moocher while the Doctor broods over his whiskey – awful stuff, tastes like heartburn, but holding it makes him look _cool_ – and pointedly doesn’t look at the dance floor where everyone is dancing the Charleston. Instead, he silently contemplates all the ways he can erase the smell of creepy, thieving, murderous loan shark from his wife’s skin as soon as they’re through here. In the middle of a particularly creative fantasy, he almost misses the moment Shaw reaches up a hand to stroke River’s cheek.

 

She shudders visibly and while Shaw takes it as encouragement, the Doctor knows differently. He growls under his breath but doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to. The sleeve of Shaw’s jacket has slipped far enough to reveal his wrist – his bare wrist. He seems to spot it at the same time the Doctor does, stiffening as he realizes the only person who has been close enough to take his transport is the woman in his arms.

 

The Doctor watches smugly as River drops the wide-eyed, innocent act like someone else might shed a coat in warm weather. Being outed hasn’t rattled her, at least not noticeably. She mouths _oops_ and smirks at Shaw like a cat in the jungle about to pounce on its prey – sleek, graceful, and utterly deadly.

 

Shaw does what any living creature with a survival instinct would do. He turns tail and runs.

 

The smirk turns into a grin as River locks eyes with him and he beams back at her, already on his feet. _Finally_ – his favorite part. Shaw shoulders his way through the crowd and the Doctor grabs River’s hand as they follow at a slower pace. They have his only way of leaving the time period so they aren’t in any hurry, fingers tangled and trading flirtatious winks when squeezing through the crowd presses them intimately together.

 

Chest to chest as they wriggle through the congested doorway, River arches an eyebrow and murmurs, “Happy to see me?”

 

“Always.” He eyes her shamelessly. “And especially in that dress, wife.”

 

“You bad boy.”

 

The low, husky way she breathes those words sends liquid heat pooling in his belly, and by her grin, River knows it. He shivers and she licks her lips, eyes dark and full of promise. Suddenly in much more of a hurry, he yanks her the rest of the way through the door and past the bouncers posted outside, and they finally spill out into the street. Spotting Shaw all the way at the end of the block, River glances at him. “Shall we, husband?”

 

He tips his hat. “Let’s blow this juice joint, baby.”

 

She gives him a withering look but he only grins unrepentantly and takes her hand. They run perfectly in sync – the Doctor clutching his hat so it doesn’t fly off his head and River in her Mary-Jane heels that click against the pavement as she sprints expertly in them. He can’t help but steal a glimpse of her, always so beautiful when she runs, and finds her gripping her gun tightly. Head spinning as he wonders where she’d been keeping it all night, he barely notices when they catch up to Shaw.

 

River shoves him up against a wall, the rough scrape of brick against his back, but he doesn’t have time to feel offended before she presses herself against him, bouncing curls in his face and warm curves under his hands. Oh. Well, this isn’t so bad. She aims her gun over his shoulder and he takes a moment to breathe in the scent of her hair, feeling a bit useless but for once not minding because River smells delicious, like stars and deserts and gin. And maybe a bit of that sickly sweet smoke from her cigarette. It’s very distracting.

 

In a bit of a daze as her chest heaves against his, he brushes his lips over her temple just as she fires. The heavy sound of a body hitting the pavement reaches his ears just before River slips her hand into his pocket and pulls out the vortex manipulator, backing away with a wink. “Hold that thought. We’re not done yet, old man.” She turns on her t-strap heel and marches off, leaving him to blink stupidly in her wake.

 

After a moment, he stumbles after her, scowling. “Please tell me you only stunned him.”

 

“Why?” She reaches Shaw’s slumped form and glances over her shoulder. “Would you have felt guilty for being too busy feeling me up to stop me?”

 

He flushes.

 

River smirks. “Relax, sweetie. He’ll wake up in a prison cell with a headache.”

 

Standing over Shaw’s inert body and remembering wandering hands and a leering gaze always directed at his wife, the Doctor laces his hands behind his back and sniffs. “Will it be a really bad headache?”

 

She looks at him like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. Knowing her, she probably does. “The worst.”

 

He nods once. Good.

 

She stifles an amused grin and bends to strap the manipulator around Shaw’s wrist. Tapping in coordinates for Stormcage with practiced ease, she blows him a kiss and says, “Say hello to the guards for me, dear.”

 

In a crackle of electricity, Shaw is gone. River stands smoothly, dusting off her hands. “Well, that was easier than I expected.”

 

“Maybe for you.”

 

He really hates how amused she looks right now, sliding a small, gloved hand up his chest. “Still pouting then?”

 

He scowls and holds up a finger. “First, you love it when I pout.” Her lips part like she wants to suck his finger into her mouth so he drops his hand quickly, flushing. “And second, why did you bring me along just to watch you flirt with a criminal all night? I missed a perfectly good picnic for this, River!”

 

“Time machine.” She settles a hand on her hip. “You never miss anything.”

 

“Not the point.”

 

“What is the point?”

 

“You brought me with you because you like it when I’m jealous.”

 

“Well, I also really like you in this suit.” She walks her fingers up his chest and fiddles with his bowtie, smiling fondly. “But that’s not why I made you come along.”

 

Not quite ready to stop being angry with her – she makes it so difficult and if anything, that should just annoy him more. But no, it makes him want to gather her into his arms and snog her silly. Maddening woman. “Why then?”

 

She purses deep red lips and glances away. “Because I rarely see this you nowadays. I couldn’t just let you leave and go find a younger me.”

 

Softening instantly, the Doctor looks down at his wife, his River who is just as desperate to spend time with him as he is with her, so much so that she’ll take him on missions with her if she has to, and sighs quietly. Cupping her cheek in his hand, he sweeps his thumb over her cheekbone and watches her lean into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. Just as he’s about to close the distance between them and kiss her the way he’s wanted to ever since she walked out of the TARDIS wardrobe in that dress, he registers the music floating on the wind from a nightclub nearby.

 

_I wanna be loved by you, just you, and nobody else but you…_

 

The Doctor glances around. The night is warm and the streets relatively empty, only a few brave souls wandering the city this late. Slipping his hand from her cheek to curl around her waist, he brushes his nose against hers and asks, “May I have this dance, Mrs. Song?”

 

River opens her eyes and smiles at him, and not for the first time, he’s struck by how absolutely luminous she is and how absolutely lucky he is. “You may, Mr. Song.”

 

Around them, the music swells as he sweeps her into a waltz popular decades from now. River loops her arms around his neck and rests her head on his chest as they twirl down the street, heedless of the stares. Her curls tickle his chin and he slides his hands over the fringe of her dress, delighting in the way it slips through his fingers.

 

“Have I ever told you how good you are at this?”

 

“What?”

 

“Dancing – when you put your mind to it.”

 

He preens.

 

“Almost as good as Shaw.”

 

“Oi!” He plucks the feather from her headband and tosses it over his shoulder. “Rude.”

 

“Very mature, Time Lord.”

 

“I’m a young 1200,” he insists smugly.

 

River rolls her eyes, reaches up a hand, and snatches his fedora from his head. Before he can do anything but squawk in protest, she perches it atop her wild curls and grins mischievously up at him. Rather smitten with the sight of her in it, he adjusts the brim so that it doesn’t hide her eyes, affecting a gangster drawl once more as he says, “It looks good on you, dollface.”

 

Hands cupping his face, she draws him down to her, their lips brushing and the brim of his hat tickling his forehead. “Oh, shut up.”

 

He grins and kisses her. “Yes, dear.”


End file.
